


Practically Perfect in Every Way

by luvscharlie



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: Biting, Bloodplay, Community: nextgendarkfest, Cross-Generation Relationship, Dark, Dubious Consent, F/M, Fanfiction, Hair-pulling, Harry Potter Next Generation, Het
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-04
Updated: 2010-10-04
Packaged: 2017-10-12 10:14:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/123809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luvscharlie/pseuds/luvscharlie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Victoire Weasley hates her lush body, her flawless face and her perfectly boring life.  She craves adventure, danger, some blemish in her otherwise perfect little world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Practically Perfect in Every Way

**Author's Note:**

> **Warnings:** Age disparity, dub!con, non!con (though it's probably debatable—still, if that's triggery for you, I don't want to mislead anyone), blood play, biting, hair pulling, masochism, striking, a desire for danger, a Victoire who is nothing like her mother (Thank God!).
> 
>  **Author's Notes:** Originally written for the 2010 nextgendarkfest on Live Journal
> 
> Prompt #162 submitted by deathjunke: "A beautiful woman should break her mirror early."—Balstasar Gracian. Thank you dear betas, Aigooism and Grander_fanfics! The title was swiped shamelessly from _Mary Poppins_ , 'cause she's the first thing you think of when you hear the words "dark fic", right? I mean that umbrella, you just know she did shameful things with that.

_"A beautiful woman should break her mirror early."_ —Balstasar Gracian

Everyone at Hogwarts wanted to be Victoire Weasley. Everyone, that was, _except_ Victoire Weasley. She was blonde, curvy in all the right places and beautiful. In sum, the boys all wanted her, and the girls all wanted to be her.

And you'd think that would make a girl happy, right? Wrong.

She hated her face, her curvy and lush body, her parents for their fucking perfect genes… hated it all. Well, maybe that was a bit unfair. Her father's genes weren't _perfect_. There was that hideous Weasley hair… which neither she, nor her sister or brother had inherited. No, they were all perfectly blonde.

Of course, there had been that incident where she'd dyed her hair jet black when she was thirteen, and her mother had been furious that Victoire'd dared to do something so outrageous as to put a stain on her perfectly beautiful children. But, it seemed that Veela blood trumped black hair dye, and by the next morning she was ridiculously, perfectly, disgustingly blonde again.

And there were those hideous Weasley freckles—not that she or Louis had any. Their skin was pale like porcelain. She had never so much as had a spot, nor had her siblings as far as she knew. Dominique had gotten a bit of her father's freckles, but nothing like the all-over freckles of a typical Weasley child. She'd only got an attractive smattering across her nose. Victoire would have given anything for a nice big wart right on the tip of her own nose; one little imperfection to ruin the breath-taking image.

She'd gone for one of those Muggle piercings (boy, would her mother throw a fit if she only knew)—wanted one right through her lip, she did—but the Muggle in charge of this piercing thing was so taken with staring at her that on his way over to do her piercing, he fell and jabbed the needle through his eye and had to be taken to some kind of Muggle infirmary. Victoire was asked to leave before she caused any more accidents. Figures she'd be blamed. It wasn't like she was encouraging the idiot man or anything. Thus, no piercing for her.

Victoire realised that some thought she was insane not to appreciate her beauty as the gift that most people seemed to think it was. Victoire, however, saw it as a curse. She was smart—brighter than most of the other girls in her year, not that anyone ever listened to anything she said, however. The boys were far too busy staring in awe at her tits, and the girls were too busy whispering behind her back and fawning to her face. Victoire turned up her nose most times; those venomous bitches only wished they had tits like hers.

And, of course, if all those flawless good looks weren't bad enough, there was the Veela blood. She could go on for hours about that! One would think, by the time it got to her, that most of the Veela in her mother's bloodline would have been diluted enough not to make much of a difference. Well, apparently not. That whole Muggle needle-through-the-eye incident notwithstanding, there were times she would approach a professor and find that he was too tongue tied to even talk to her—too intent on gawping at her to actually answer a question about an assignment. And it wasn't just the men. The witches were oftentimes just as equally reduced to open-mouthed, staring in her presence. Bloody annoying, that's what it was!

Oh sure, Victoire was popular. Everyone wanted to be her best friend. Only, there wasn't a single person, even though she was in her seventh year of schooling, with whom she could share a secret. Not one person that she would dare to take into her confidence, now that Teddy was no longer in school. There were no true friends when you were the one that was envied, when every girl that you might have gotten close to was far too terrified that you would take an interest in her boyfriend to truly want you around. And having the juicy gossip about Victoire Weasley… well, that would make one shoot to the top of the popularity charts at school, so she trusted no one with any of her secrets. She smiled her fake smiles, waved a disgustingly faux wave at friends-who-weren't, and she couldn't wait to get away from them and retreat to the only place around this school that brought her any semblance of peace—the Shrieking Shack.

Only this time, the Shrieking Shack would bring her a far different kind of awakening than she had anticipated. But, ever so fulfilling because that's where _he_ was.

The tunnels beneath the school and grounds of Hogwarts had been mostly sealed off after the war that happened so long ago, even before she was born. According to her family, the castle had been mostly rebuilt. However, the tunnel to the Shrieking Shack remained mostly clear, and very secret, ever guarded by the Whomping Willow. Teddy had discovered it during his first year and had shared it with only her. That was where she went when the pressure of holding up her perfect image became too much. And that was where she'd first encountered Rabastan Lestrange. At least, it was the first time she actually encountered him in the flesh.

She remembered seeing his picture screaming out at her from her father's copy of _The Daily Prophet_ when she was but a little girl. He was one of the few Death Eaters that had escaped the Battle of Hogwarts and gone into hiding. She remembered hearing her father say, every time that photograph ran on the front page, how it was only a matter of time before the Aurors caught up to him… only, they never had.

The coverage had gotten smaller as Victoire had grown older, until finally, after a good many years, coverage on rogue Death Eaters had become virtually nonexistent. There was still an occasional photograph posted below a "Have you seen this man?" headline, usually around the anniversary of her Uncle Fred's death. But on those rare occasions, the story would be buried somewhere at the bottom of page eight and, Victoire gathered, those stories were, for the most part, ignored.

She'd nearly forgotten about them herself. Only, her meeting with Lestrange brought those old articles to the forefront of her mind. That's where Lestrange was. Constantly etched into her mind so that it was impossible to shake him free.

 _That meeting was when everything changed. But, of course, when telling a story, one should start at the beginning…_

***

Victoire'd simply had enough of the school. She couldn't take it anymore—the fake smiles, the empty compliments, the individuals so desperate for her attention—she hated them all. So she made her way to the Shrieking Shack for a bit of much needed solitude.

She'd only just stepped out of the tunnel when she found herself thrown violently against the wall of the shack, strong arms pressing her hard against the rough wood. The voice in her ear was desperate, angry.

"Who has sent you here?"

"What?" Victoire's response was reflexive, unable to take in everything that was happening so quickly. No one else was supposed to know how to get in here. Only it was clear that someone else _did_ , and that someone had just flung her against a wall. It'd be a wonder if she didn't get a splinter in her bum from the rough wood which someone was pushing her hard against. Someone was daring to treat her as something other than a fragile piece of porcelain or an object of lust. And it was scary and wonderful and terrifying—an unharnessed emotion bursting forth… and oh, to feel this all the time, this electrifying jolt of terror… she nearly sighed until Rabastan Lestrange shook her again, hard.

"Are you deaf, girl? I asked who sent you here. Now answer me. Which of those fucking Muggle lovers knows I'm here?" He punctuated the statement with a sharp slap to Victoire's left cheek, which sent a shiver down her spine as the burn washed over her. She'd _never_ been treated in such a way, no one had ever struck her before, and she wavered between being irate that someone would dare to treat _her_ so savagely, and being turned on for exactly the same reason.

"No-Nobody," Victoire stammered. "I just—I came here to get away from the school for a while. That—that's all." She was beginning to shake, whether with anticipation or from actual fear, she couldn't say, but she did breathe a sigh of relief (albeit with a tinge of disappointment) when the man let go of her. "I didn't know you'd be here, Mr. Lestrange." Perhaps if he knew that she was aware of his identity, he might… well, she had no idea what he might do, but she so wanted to find out.

The man was, no doubt, Rabastan Lestrange. He was much changed, but those long ago pictures hadn't faded from Victoire's mind enough not to recognise him. He was certainly thinner, and his eyes were a bit more crazed-looking than she remembered, but there was a classic elegance to his look that years of living on the run and hiding away hadn't taken from him. He was dark in colouring with high cheekbones and matted hair, which had once been black, but now was more white than ebony. The thing, however, that drew Victoire's eyes were the deep grooves that ran down his left forearm, marring what had once been a mark that held much significance, a mark they had studied in Defence Against the Dark Arts many times.

"So you know who I am then. And I see you've noticed my wartime souvenir. Of course, a pretty girl like you would know nothing of such imperfections, would she?"

"No," she snorted, exasperated that even here in her sanctuary she couldn't escape being judged based upon her looks, her annoyance making her forget her fear of the man before her. She shrugged him off and went to sit at the shabby wooden table in the centre of the room. "And don't you tell me what I know or what I don't know," she spat.

Lestrange laughed—a horrible, wonderful sound that made goose bumps rise on Victoire's skin. "Ah, I'd almost forgotten what it was like to be young. To know all, to be far too wise to listen to those who have lived longer and know better."

"And sadly," Victoire retorted, "I haven't been away from adults long enough to forget how much they _think_ they know."

"My, my, what a beautiful girl to be so bitter and ugly inside." He approached her and cupped her chin as though giving her a look over.

No one had ever called her ugly, whether describing her inside or out. And with that simple sentence, her intrigue for this dangerous man grew by a thousand-fold. She spit in his face, daring him to do something to her, _praying_ that he would. Alas, he only served to disappoint her; he released her chin and took the seat opposite her. "You're quite foolish, child. There was a time I would have killed you without a second thought."

"And now?" she asked, doing her best to keep her voice level.

"Well, the 'second thought' only serves as a reminder that I'm not the wizard I once was," Rabastan said, following his words with a deep sigh. "But then, none of us really are now, are we? At least, not my kind; not the ones of us who are left. I sometimes think that perhaps I'm the only one."

He was clearly talking to himself rather than to her, and for once she hated not being the centre of attention. Of course, that's they way it happened, she guessed. Spend your whole life wishing to step outside of the spotlight, only to be terribly disappointed the moment it shines elsewhere.

Rabastan continued, "This many years later, and I have nothing to show for all that has been my life except a few nasty scars and memories of endless misery. I am only sorry that I hadn't the bravery to end it all long ago. Of course, I was only the follower; Rodolphus was the one who made all the decisions. So here I am, alone. If I had a wand, I'd probably just _Avada Kedavra_ myself." He was beginning to shake, and his face had twisted in sorrow.

Victoire thought it was best not to remind him of her presence at the moment. Of course, she'd never paid much heed to her inner voice and this was daring, and the adrenaline pumping through her made her feel alive. More than anything, and perhaps a bit foolishly, she longed for him to mark her in some way, to mar her perfect face, to bruise her flawless skin. And so, she goaded him. "A bit pathetic for a former Death Eater. I have to say, I'm rather disappointed. First Death Eater I get to meet and he's a bit of a whiner. That would be my luck."

Rabastan did not disappoint…

He pulled her from the chair and slapped her hard across the face, bloodying her nose and busting her lip. She cried out, but was embarrassed to hear how much it sounded like a moan. Unfortunately, Rabastan Lestrange noticed it as well.

"You are an odd child. It's almost as if you—"

Victoire twisted away from him. "I'm going!" she said, and started for the exit that would bring her back out to the school grounds, but Rabastan caught her arm and pulled her back.

"Going where, child? Why, you're not going anywhere. Can't have you running back to the school to tell everyone about the big, bad Death Eater hiding in the shack now, can I?"

Victoire's heart was pounding fast. "So what? Do you plan to keep me here with you?" _Say yes! Please say yes! Take me away from this miserable, perfect, drab little existence that I call a life—there's adventure out there in the world, I just know it—and with this man, I might just be able to find it._

Rabastan cocked his head and leered at her; his smile was frightening, exciting, a thing of horrific beauty. "You do present a most delicious problem for me. A beautiful, delicious, tempting problem." He pulled her a bit closer with each word, and she could smell the unwashed stench of him. His hand circled her neck, grabbing her hard as he grasped a handful of her hair and used it to drag her toward him. "You are a strange, strange child. Not frightened a bit, are you?" Rabastan asked with a keen insight that she hadn't expected. Few people could read her; few people had truly tried. "Excited even, I'd say."

"That's ridiculous! Of course I'm frightened of you. Who wouldn't be? Everyone knows that Death Eaters are evil," Victoire retorted, but even she couldn't detect any real conviction behind her words. She tried harder to conjure up some semblance of emotion other than eager anticipation. "You're filthy," she said, snarling her nose in what she hoped passed for disgust. "You're scarred and ugly and—" Her breath was hitching at his close proximity. His fingers had tightened on her neck so that they were digging into her tender flesh and tugging on her hair, and it was all that she could do not to moan at the contact and grind her hips in frustration from wanting more.

"I know your type," Rabastan spat. "So pretty, and yet so alone." He let her go and flopped down on a filthy mattress in the corner.

"You know nothing about me," Victoire replied, upset that he had released her. "I'm going and there's nothing you can do to stop me!" She started towards the tunnel's entrance, certain this tactic would gain her the connection that she wanted.

"I'm leaving," she repeated, when he made no move to bring her back. She stepped slowly. There was still no move from him to get up off the mattress, so she turned on her heel and stalked over to him, hands on hips. "So that's it then? You're just going to let me walk out of here and tell the world that Rabastan Lestrange, a wanted Death Eater, is hiding in the Shrieking Shack? Some sense of self-preservation you have. How have you made it on your own this long?"

"By learning to read people. Just takes a little longer with some than others. But not you. No, you're an open book. You relish this. Love the thought of having me here where no one knows about the danger lurking in the dark except you. Am I wrong?"

"Of course you're wrong!" Victory said, but she made no move to leave.

"What's your name, child?" Rabastan said.

"First of all, I'm not a child, so stop calling me that. Second, why should I tell you my name?"

"How else will I know what to call you?"

Victoire turned up her nose and walked out of the tunnel, though it took every ounce of willpower that she had to do so.

***

The next day, Rabastan Lestrange was all Victoire could think about; he had taken up permanent residence in her brain. She could not concentrate on her studies, and she found her mind wandering again and again to that mysterious stranger in the Shrieking Shack. Her hand would drift to her mouth to touch the spot where her lip was split, relishing that bit of pain with every touch, sometimes pressing hard enough to make it bleed again… craving more. She wondered if he was still there.

At dinner that evening, Victoire wore robes with magically enlarged pockets, and with every few bites she surreptitiously slipped some food from the table into them.

After dinner, she couldn't wait any longer. She slipped out of the front doors of the castle and headed down to the Whomping Willow as quickly as her legs would carry her, robes laden down with the pilfered food.

***

"Well, you held out longer than I thought you would, child." Rabastan's words assailed her the moment she stepped into the Shack.

"I have no idea what you're talking about. I almost didn't come at all," she lied.

"Of course you didn't." He smirked and Victoire considered kicking him.

"You think you know so much," Victoire spat at him.

"I've known many like you over the years, child."

"Stop calling me that!" She stamped her foot to punctuate the statement, realising a bit too late that stamping her feet might not be the best way to convince the mysterious stranger that she was anything less than grown. "I was only coming to bring you some food because I thought you might be hungry, that's all." She pulled the offering from her robe pockets and placed it on the table.

There was no further opportunity for conversation. Rabastan threw himself on the food, feral-like in his hunger. It was a good fifteen minutes before they exchanged another word. Rabastan stretched back in the meagre wooden chair and looked her up and down in a way that made her pleasantly uncomfortable.

"You might say thank you," Victoire said when the man showed no intention of doing so.

"I might… but I won't. That's not part of the game after all."

"Game? Why, I have no idea what you're on about. I'm playing no game," Victoire retorted.

"Of course you are, and it's quite a dangerous one… that _is_ the reason you're playing, isn't it? The danger. It draws you in. You crave it. Desire that rush." Rabastan rose from the chair and crossed the room to where Victoire stood. He backed her against the wall, and Victoire shivered when he took her chin roughly in his hand. "Dance with danger once too often, child, and you will find that it's a game that plays for keeps."

This was the part where he would kiss her. She just knew it. It happened that way in all the best of novels—or if not the best ones, at least the ones with the most risqué covers. He would kiss her and her heart would race and the blood would pound in her ears and it would be gloriously wicked and…

Rabastan was clearly not a reader (honestly, one day she was going to find someone who knew how the fuck these things were supposed to work!) because he spun her around and shoved her face first into the rough wood of the Shack's wall. He drew her hands behind her back and trapped them there with his body, rendering her helpless. He pulled at her robes roughly, separating them at the front. She heard the tear of her shirt and the muted pinging sound as her buttons skittered across the dirt floor.

 _Fucking, yes!_ This was what she craved. What she desired. This rough handling would be sure to make bruises bloom on her pale skin, and oh, how she would relish those hideous, delightful, terrible, gorgeous blue and black marks. If she was incredibly lucky, one might even turn that disgusting green colour.

Rabastan's hand twisted cruelly in her hair, and she responded with a surprised cry at the pain as he twisted her locks around his fingers. His other hand slid inside her now mutilated shirt yanking down her bra and twisting her breast until she rose up on her toes, torn between wanting to escape his touch and revelling in the sensation.

"So desperate for danger, so wanting of pain… you shall have both, child, before the night is through. And we'll see if it still holds any allure for you when you are screaming beneath my hands." Rabastan's hand slid into her robe pocket and removed her wand. "Foolish, foolish girl. Do you know what I could do to you with this? Have you any idea the damage I could do in a matter of seconds? Oh child, you have so much to learn."

With her wand in his control, Victoire knew what it was to feel truly helpless, and as much as she had thought she craved it, she felt a lump forming in her throat. Things were spiralling out of control quickly, and she was no longer sure she liked how this made her feel.

Rabastan's teeth sank into the tender flesh of her neck and he pressed her so hard against the wall that a splinter pierced her cheek. Using her wand, Rabastan Vanished her outer robe. He moaned, a sound of pure pleasure. "The feel of a wand in my hand, oh, the power, how I've missed it," he whispered as much to himself as to her. He shoved up her skirt and kicked apart her legs, grabbing her hair again and pulling her back a bit from the wall then forcing her head down until she was bent almost double, her bum sticking out at a vulgar angle. He slid her wand into the waistband of her white, cotton knickers and used it to tug them down, the wood slipping between her cheeks as he worked the knickers down her thighs.

Despite the fact that she had some experience, Victoire was unprepared when Rabastan went down on his knees behind her and gripped her thighs tightly, kneading her tender flesh so that her knees almost buckled under his cruelty. His face pressed into her core and she felt him inhale, the sharp intake of breath against her lust-dampened centre producing strange new sensations that she was unprepared for.

His fingers parted her folds in a manner that was almost tender, and then his mouth was upon her, licking at her juices, teasing over her clit. She moaned and bucked her hips against his face. His tongue made another circle around her clit and then he did the unthinkable. Suddenly and without any warning, Rabastan bit down.

Victoire screamed as Rabastan's teeth ground against her clit. She tried to close her thighs, but he held them firmly apart, his fingers digging into her flesh. She struggled and screamed, twisting and turning, but Rabastan was unrelenting. He held her fast and when he finally released her and looked up, she saw that his lips were coated with her blood.

"Still enjoying your taste of danger, child? _I_ certainly am." He stood and cupped her face between his palms, almost gently, and pressed a chaste kiss upon her forehead.

Victoire's tears were flowing freely, and her cunt was throbbing as she shook her head and wailed. "No, please. Let me go." But, even as she protested, her mind was screaming, _You couldn't push me out this door if you tried. I've never felt so alive._

"Let you go? But this is what you wanted, and we are only just beginning, little one." And with that, his gentle touch on her cheek became a painful, sharp slap that sent Victoire to her knees. She began to crawl away from him, protesting his sadistic treatment with every move. But she got no farther than a few feet from him when he grabbed her by the hair and pulled her back, her high-pitched scream seeming not to affect him in the least. "Don't go away, child. The fun is just about to start. I would hate for you to miss it, when you were so eager for this bit of danger."

His tone mocked her and she willed herself to stop crying, looking up at him with a touch of defiance that she had to pull up from deep within herself.

"Ah, now that's more like it. I knew you weren't so easily broken as that." He dropped to his knees and pulled her to him, covering his lips with hers and forcing his tongue into her mouth. She became nauseous and nearly vomited when she tasted the metallic flavour of her own blood that still coated his lips.

Breaking the kiss, Rabastan spun her around so that she was on all fours. Before she could recover herself, he was inside her, pounding into her unwilling body, thrust after thrust, occasionally landing a sharp slap on her buttocks. She attempted to squirm away to no avail, unable to hold back her sobs. And then as quickly as it had started, it was all over. There was a groan of pleasure, a few quick, hard thrusts, and she was shoved away, her face striking the dirt floor. She just lay there in a crumpled heap.

Rabastan pointed Victoire's wand at her, and the world went black.

***

Victoire awoke sometime later to find herself alone in the Shrieking Shack with her wand missing and the bruises she'd so coveted blooming on her pale skin… and the thirst for more danger, rising up in her again, begging to be quenched.


End file.
